Of Plaid Shirts and Whiskey
by vulcaneyebrows
Summary: Jim is inebriated and wearing a plaid shirt. Spock needs to do something about both of those problems. In his attempts, he's presented with an interesting opportunity but, unfortunately, Jim would never feel the same way... Would he? This story takes place during The City on the Edge of Forever and is total, unapologetic fluff.


**Of Plaid Shirts and Whiskey**

There appeared to be no escape from a cold December evening in New York, at least not inside of a so-called "flop" with thin walls that allowed the late night chill to relentlessly penetrate them. Spock had mastered the ability to push the discomforting temperature to the back of his mind, instead focusing all of his thoughts and efforts on the dire task at hand.

He had accomplished ignoring the cold prickling at his sensitive Vulcan skin by reminding himself that it was imperative to complete the assembly of the new circuit board and join it with the others by the next morning. It was the only hope for staying on the very tight schedule that he and Jim were bound to. After all, no one could predict when Doctor McCoy would appear and the sooner he finished, the better.

Spock shivered as he gave his nimble fingers and tired eyes a well-deserved rest. Working nonstop all day on such small components with no suitable equipment was incredibly taxing, even on him; it made Spock wonder just how people of the 1930's could describe anything they did as efficient. Life was profoundly difficult during this time period, plagued by extreme economic hardship and lack of technological advances. It was an incredibly dark age.

Reaching to his dark blue hat, Spock pulled down on the rim and adjusted it so the stretchy material covered his ears better. With the inhale of a deep breath, he pushed his shoulders back and straightened his spine, coercing a series of joints to loudly pop in rapid succession. The action offered a slight pleasing sensation to his exhausted body, but did little to alleviate all of his muscles that were stiff from leaning over the table all day.

Spock's brown eyes drifted across the apartment and his gaze fixated upon a small clock perched on the bedside table. It was a half hour before midnight and he wondered about the Captain's current state. The blond had been working constantly, taking job after job after job so they could afford to purchase all of the parts needed to complete the device; most work was very labor-intense, requiring back-breaking tasks like shoveling or digging.

However, it wasn't work that caused his delay in returning on this particular evening. The men who frequented the Mission had invited Jim to partake in a social event to commemorate the repeal of prohibition, and, to maintain the positive rapport, the Captain had accepted.

"How bad could it really be?" Spock recalled Jim asking rhetorically as he stood before the door, slipping his brown coat over the plaid red button up shirt clinging to his torso. "I'll blend in, drink with the guys for awhile, and I'm sure more jobs will come my way."

Spock stared at the empty space where Jim had given him a warm smile before leaving. It was illogical, but something about the human could make even the coldest room feel warm; in all his scientific ability, Spock had never been able to pinpoint exactly how or why, but it was an effect he could never escape.

Suddenly, the sound of jingling keys filled his pointed ears. Scratching followed, as if one key were being dragged across the wood of the door and then hitting the metal of the lock.

"_Shit_!" Spock heard Jim hiss from the other side. All became quiet for several moments before the key was slid carefully into the lock and turned.

The door forcefully swung open and there – in all of his glory – the Captain stood. He held tightly onto the frame, his shoulders visibly rising and falling, eyes so glassy that Spock could actually see their reflectiveness from where he sat. However the image of Jim didn't last very long; the door sailed all the way open, bounced off the wall, and swung back, closing right in the blond's face. One of Spock's eyebrows rose with a slight tilt of his head.

A moment went by before the handle turned slowly and Jim stumbled in, this time giving himself only enough space to slip his body through. Whether on purpose or not, he shut the door by falling backwards against it. He just stood for several seconds before his shoulder blades slipped against the wood and his posterior sunk straight down to the floor in no graceful manner.

"Captain?" Spock questioned, his deep voice calm and unaffected as he stood, remaining in place.

Jim sat with his feet flat on the floor, his strong hands clasping to his bent knees. His lips were open slightly and his eyes completely out of focus. It was clear that he was extremely intoxicated.

"Hi, Spock," the human said over a deep exhale, not even looking at him. His dark blond eyebrows steepened as he attempted to focus, but he was unable to stop himself from seeing triple of everything.

"Are you all right?" Spock asked, the vanilla tone of his voice carrying across the room.

"Yeah," Jim breathed out, his chest still conspicuously expanding and collapsing as he appeared to stare at nothing. "Yeah, I jus. I jus' need'ta..." He shook his head. "...Gotta get some sleep, that's all."

The human's hands slipped to the floor on either side of his hips and pushed down against it. Peering at one hand, he seemed genuinely confused as to why he wasn't standing yet. He pushed again. Then, his shoes began slipping against the rug in loutish motions.

"Shiiiiit," Jim huffed out, letting his head fall back against the door in near defeat. Never one to quit though, he tried once again and, miraculously, the combination of his pushing arms and flailing legs began raising his body off the floor. However, he didn't get far before slipping back down. A pair of feet seemed to randomly appear before his eyes, though they could have been four or six for all he knew in his current state.

"Captain."

Jim tilted his chin upwards, looking at the face of the man who uttered his title. The human's eyes were half-lidded, his mouth dry and still slightly opened. "Yeah, Spock?"

"You are intoxicated."

With a heavy groan, the blond's eyes fell shut and he said more to himself, "No shit."

No further words were exchanged as he remained in place, just letting his head fall back against the door again. Jim knew damn well he couldn't get up and his hazy judgment told him he would be just fine sleeping in front of the door, regardless of the draft.

His muddled thoughts were interrupted when he suddenly felt naturally limber but robust arms slip underneath his own and pull him up to his feet. Jim's eyes shot open as his complete lack of balance sent him falling forward. Instinct forced his arms in front of him as he braced himself for impact.

Surprisingly, he thudded against something soft.

Jim's drunken mind had thought that, perhaps, he would hit the floor. His vision and thoughts out of focus, he slowly raised his face to see exactly what he landed against. Glazed-over hazel eyes suddenly saw a pair of familiar thin lips. Jim squinted slightly as he attempted to focus on them, and, as if the reality of the situation had come crashing down around him, his heart nearly stopped.

Slowly, the blond's chin lifted and his gaze met Spock's. Only when Jim realized that he was staring into the chocolate brown eyes of his First Officer did it occur to him that their lips were nearly touching, that the breaths he exhaled spilled across the sensitive angular face, that his arms were wrapped around Spock's chest and his hands were hooked into the back of his flannel shirt. Jim entirely froze as thoughts sloshed together in his mind, the natural spicy scent of the Vulcan filling his senses and messing with his head even further.

Spock stared down into what was the most expressive set of eyes he had ever seen. He was certainly no expert on the interpretation of emotion, but something about Jim's current state simultaneously called to and paralyzed him. The human's body was warm against his, muscular arms encircling his torso and fingers digging into the fabric of his clothing. He could feel a hardening mass poking against his thigh, see a dusting of blush forming across Jim's golden cheeks. Their faces were incredibly close, the space between their lips almost daring to become nonexistent. And in his Captain's eyes, the Vulcan saw novels of feelings that he found himself somehow able to identify but not entirely willing to believe.

Nothing in the universe – nothing – could prepare him for what he observed in those hazel orbs: James Kirk appeared to be looking at Spock with raw, unbridled desire. Need. Longing. Wanting.

Jim had always looked at him in ways that no other person ever had, but never had it been with such intensity as now. It was often a soft smile, an emotive gaze, an amused chortle with a warm hand falling upon his shoulder. However, what was once light and convivial had suddenly metamorphosed into something that caused the atmosphere encompassing them both to become excessively tense – and it was attributable solely to Jim's eyes nearly begging Spock to eliminate the millimeters separating their lips.

Spock's disciplined Vulcan mind was able to discern the logic from instinctual augmenting lust which simply dared him to act upon heedless desire. Jim was right there, his aroused frame pressed tightly against his own, his mouth and body there for the taking. However, Spock's well-practiced sensibilities reminded him that he could have misinterpreted the entire situation and Jim was, above all, acutely inebriated.

"Jim..." Spock's voice was no louder than a whisper, his gaze never breaking from the man who fell into his arms. "You require rest."

Jim's arms tensed as his hands squeezed tightly on Spock's shirt in what could have been protest or a mindless drunken act. However, his stiffness melted away when he dropped his face, his forehead hitting into the Vulcan's strong shoulder. The human squeezed his eyes tightly and relaxed them, trying to get his thoughts to focus as his body swayed to the side.

Somewhere deep inside of him, rational thought was screaming to be cautious but his impulsive side was chiding him for missing what could have been the only opportunity he would ever be presented with to kiss Spock. Jim swayed again. It suddenly dawned on him that he had no idea how he would get to the bed, considering he couldn't even manage standing in one place. He then realized that thinking so much was making him feel nauseous.

Jim was vaguely aware that Spock was talking or asking him something, but he couldn't process what he was saying, or even lift his head for that matter. He just tried to make the world stop moving around him with no avail; closing his eyes and tilting his head forward had been a huge mistake.

Before Jim understood what was actually happening, the Vulcan's arm slipped to his lower back and suddenly, there was another one behind his knees. In one fluid movement, Jim was lifted and cradled securely within Spock's arms. The human's mind was entirely gone at that moment as he decided this was actually some beautiful dream he was having instead of reality.

Dazed and rendered immobile, Jim's head fell against Spock's shoulder again as felt himself being carried through the apartment. He completely surrendered, unable to stand even the thought of looking anywhere with how fast the room was spinning around him.

Spock arrived at the bed and gently sat Jim down on the edge. He then kneeled, lowering his face so he was close to eye-level. There, he slipped the coat off the human's shoulders and pulled it free from his arms. His nimble fingers then took hold of the top button on the plaid shirt that fit the Captain's body so perfectly; however, before he could begin opening it, Jim slumped forward, his forehead gently hitting into Spock's. The human had officially passed out.

Spock closed his eyes for several seconds before they reopened and, with their foreheads still together, he began deftly undoing each button. When both sides of the shirt were freed from each other, the Vulcan reached up, slipped his fingers through Jim's golden hair, and gently tipped his head back. He then slipped the garment off of him with one hand, leaving him in a clingy white undershirt. It became more obvious than ever that the Captain had gained muscle mass in the last few weeks because of all the intense physical work he was doing.

Spock's hand slipped by Jim's head, instead letting it fall into the the crook of his elbow. He gingerly lowered him to his pillow, his free hand coming up behind the human's knees again and raising them to the bed. Once he was prone, the Vulcan slipped the shoes off Jim's feet.

Dark brown eyes fell upon the belt encircling the blond's waist then, as Spock paused to wonder if removing his jeans would make him more comfortable. An unexpected wave of heat coursed through his body and he stilled against it momentarily. When Spock moved again, it was to quickly maneuver the blond's covered legs beneath the blankets. He pulled them right up to Jim's chin.

The human had a placid look written across the features of his face as he slept, his only sound being soft inhales and exhales leaving his slightly parted lips. Hesitantly, Spock reached up and brushed aside that one stubborn lock of hair that always fell across Jim's forehead and pushed it back into place.

Spock straightened himself then, and picked up the attire that he removed from the blond. He hung his coat on the rack and paused as he studied the remaining garment in his hands. This plaid shirt accented Jim's masculine torso so perfectly that he could claim the attention of anyone fortunate enough to be near him without even trying. Spock had seen it in action firsthand at the Mission.

The Vulcan slipped into his chair and began redoing the buttons of the shirt. Once they were all done up, he took hold of the shoulders and threw it into the air, allowing it to settle over his knees so he could fold it. However, the action caused Jim's scent to fill the space surrounding him and he paused.

Spock stole a glance over his shoulder at the sleeping man before he brought the shirt to his face. He buried his nose into the collar and deeply inhaled, letting Jim's natural essence fill his senses. He allowed himself this, because it would be the only chance he ever had to do so.

As he let the red plaid shirt fall into his lap and began folding it, Spock permitted himself to wonder what it would have been like to take Jim's pink lips against his own. Of course, it would have been unethical; he had no doubt in that fact. After all, Jim was drunk and would never be interested in him. He was also already bonded to T'Pring.

He realized then that what he should have really been pondering was why – even with knowing those facts – he was so drawn to this human and this human alone, as if Jim were calling to his very soul. Spock's eyes fell over the folded shirt resting across his thighs as he considered his answer. After several moments of thought, all roads led to one word: T'hy'la.

Spock's blank expression immediately steeled. No, that was an impossible idea, an utterly absurd notion. Jim would never feel the same way. Spock dismissed all thoughts of the subject as he placed Jim's shirt on the dresser and returned to his seat to resume work on the circuit board.

However, buried somewhere deep down in the darkest recesses of his subconscious, Spock knew he was correct. Jim was his soulmate. What he didn't know was that neither of them had figured it out yet.


End file.
